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Sitting down on the floor in the stacks with all fourteen books—the one I’d found and the thirteen that were currently in the library—I flipped through the pages. For hours I was compelled to examine every picture, sliding my eyes over every write-up about the model, the camera, the film, the settings…
There were portraits of men, of women, of children and of pets. There were street photos, posed photos in studios, and photos that seemed like casual snapshots, but taken with the perfect aperture and timing, the right lens, and the ideal light.
Art. They were art.
Many of the portraits were of nudes. Mostly men, but a few women as well. I studied the choices Harold had made, wondering how he got these people to agree to disrobe for him. Wondering if my uncle had taken his clothes off for this talented man.
Photos of people naked inside, photos of people naked outside…
Naked in other ways, too, like the way their eyes shone up from the page, alive and young even twenty years out from the moment captured. Frozen in time at their most beautiful and most alive.
Harold was talented, and I was struck with both envy and wonder as I continued my journey through his work. There was one thing I hoped to find. One thing I saw no sign of yet…
I’d nearly given up when I came to the final pages of the last book in my stack. I’d learned a lot already, and admired Harold’s work, but when I found what I was looking for, I felt transported.
My own face—or one very like it—peered up shyly from the page in full color. The portrait was a full-body one, fully clothed. A casual shot taken outdoors, seated in a wrought-iron chair, next to a wildly blooming rosebush.
My uncle was smoking a cigarette, legs crossed, and his hair was as unruly as mine. His head was half tilted down, like he was trying not to look at Harold or the camera but couldn’t resist. There was a softness in his expression that’d been lacking in the other photos I’d seen of him, the ones in the envelope that still resided in my backpack.
It was a beautiful expression. A shy, embarrassed joy. I felt it myself in my chest, and I rubbed at it as a knot rose in my throat.
Beneath the photo was the title Harold had chosen for it:My Robin.
George. George Robbins.
Ah.
I sat the book down, peering into the depths of the stacks, remembering that the missing book, the one not in the library right now, had been titled simplyRobin. Was it a book only of my uncle’s portraits? Was that possible? Or was I making too much out of this? I didn’t know, but I wanted to find out.
Rising to go research whetherRobinwas missing or checked out, I clutched the book with his portrait in the back to my chest, a smile starting in the corners of my mouth.
I didn’t understand it. This feeling inside. But it was good to know my uncle’s memory wasn’t dependent on me alone. There were other photos of him. Other people who could carry his existence onward. I wondered if Harold still thought of him. If he remembered those letters. If he knew what had happened. If some part of him still burned, still yearned, still loved his Robin.
My heart fluttered.
Perhaps I had something new and exciting to share with Bobby after all.
***
When I returnedhome, my backpack was extra heavy with the weight of Harold Seville’s portrait book with my uncle’s photo in it. I’d checked it out before leaving. Still zipping along on the high from the night with Daniel, and the unreality of having discovered this link to my uncle, I wanted to tell someone, but I didn’t know just who.
The obvious choice, my mom, was in too good a mood to consider it.
Singing in the kitchen and pulling apart string cheese while drinking wine, she waved at me as I walked in. Dad was in the middle of making tacos and seemed to be struggling with it, which made Mom laugh.
There was no way I was going to burst her bubble with news about her brother. Even if it was exciting, and in my opinion, good.
“Hey,” I said, dropping my backpack onto the counter and stretching my arms wide. I was exhausted. It’d been a very long day after a very exciting night. “How’s it going?”
“Great,” Mom said. “There’s a message for you.” She passed me a sheet of paper.
Call Daniel.
“Wow, such a long message. I see why you couldn’t have just told me verbally.”
“Aw, look at him,” Mom called over to Dad. “All cranky after staying out half the night and getting up early this morning.”
“But do I add the spice now? Or later?” Dad muttered.
